


nothing like love and everything like a phoenix

by transiock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1950s Slang, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, First Dates, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Greaser Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John is really a nerd, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinda manipulation on Sherlock's part, M/M, Nerd John, Secret Relationship, Sherlock smokes, Top Sherlock, and rides a motorcycle, and steals a car, i cant stress that enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was all fire.<br/>Anyone who had any sense of self-preservation stayed away from Sherlock Holmes, but some liked to dance around the flames, see how long it took to get burned. That’s how it started, anyway. Just a game, a dare. Before the flames completely engulfed John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> (a HUGE thank you to @/thejohnlocksucc on twitter for beta'ing this entire story. I don't know what I would've done without them!!)  
> Quick definitions:
> 
> Soc- basically the opposite of a Greaser 
> 
> Paper-shaker- Cheerleader
> 
> Ankle-biters- Kids
> 
> Square- someone who's boring, plain.
> 
> Nowheresville- Place where boring people live. Nothing going on.
> 
> If there's any definitions I missed, please tell me.

1958

Girls fell at Sherlock’s feet, there was no denying it. In spite of this, Sherlock never really seemed interested. He could have anyone in (or outside of) the school, but was never the type to go out. Never the kind to ‘do’ relationships.

Sherlock would never be shot down. He didn’t go out much sure, but he did like to tease. He played the game as much as anyone. Even how he dressed: dark leather jacket, plain shirt a size too big on his tall, thin body, tucked into black jeans. All of it was meant only to attract, and even though he never went steady, he would still be found petting on girls while a movie flickered in the background, found the next day with fading marks on his neck to accompany the broken skin on his lip.

 John first saw him like that. All dark leather, wild hair, and blood. A goddamn match ready to be set alight.

 When Sherlock spotted him, cigarette dangling from his mouth, motorcycle behind him, his eyes watching John like a wolf on hunting grounds, it twisted something inside him. Maybe it was just because he was the biggest contradiction to blonde, glasses wearing, sweater-vest clad John Watson. Little square from nowheresville, who would never be that tall, and never look that cool under any circumstances.

“You see him?” Molly tilted her head up at Sherlock, now taking a drag from his cigarette.

 John nodded and kept his lips tight as they walked into school. Molly wouldn’t stop talking about him, never stopped talking about him, but John didn’t listen to a word. If anything he avoided Sherlock like the Plague, but no matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t get Sherlock's eyes out of his head. Burning a bright blue. The way he looked over everyone like he had seen this play a thousand times before. Like he had fucking wrote it. His gaze led to high, sharp cheekbones, befitting royal blood. Then, slightly parted, wet lips hinting at a twisted smirk, like he knew John, like he was an old friend, like he could be everything.

It made John furious. He wished he could wipe that goddamn smirk off his face without getting his own bashed in in the process.

 

The whole thing was Molly’s idea. She thought it would be just the most if John led him along. In the middle of the damn year too, when Sherlock had already stared John down plenty of times.

“Just see what he likes. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t go with girls." She said with scandal in her breath, "It’ll just be for kicks.”

“From what you told me, he does go with girls. He goes with everyone.”

“He doesn’t stay with girls, and don’t be so dramatic, not everyone. Please? It'll wipe that look off his face, if anything."

Her eyes were wide and pleading. John couldn’t find it in his heart to say no, and he couldn't help but think the idea of getting one up on Sherlock was tempting.

He groaned, “Fine. Alright. Just for kicks, but I’m getting out as soon as I can.”

She smiled.

John spent the next couple days thinking of the ways he could approach Sherlock, without much result. The only reason he even kept this a possibility was Molly's incessant talk about it. She constantly asked John what he was gonna do, if he was ever gonna do it, until it turned out he didn’t have to.

 

Molly tapped him on the shoulder, squeals passing her lips, “John! John!” she said in an urgent whisper. Blue and ash was all John saw at first, stomping towards him with all the grace of a charging bull, all rock and roll and...something John couldn't place.

Sherlock looked him up and down.

_Flash paper._

He licked his lips.

_The feeling when you miss a step on the stairs…_

Smoke fell out of his mouth.

_Pure thrill._

John was sure his heart stopped along with the rest of the school. People would have a goddamn field day with this.

Sherlock towered over him, words heavy in the air and intended only for John’s ears. It was too bad everyone else heard them.

“Wanna go for a ride?” Sherlock asked, letting his arm fall to this side, dragging his cigarette down with it.

John's mouth fell open, but his throat didn’t let the words out. What was he supposed to say? He had class and plans after. He had a life that Sherlock seemed sure to drag into the light and set aflame.

John couldn't help but let his eyes notice every detail of Sherlock's face now that he was this close, taking note of how pale he truly was. Everything about him was contrast, black hair, white skin, black jacket, white shirt, black shoes, white socks. He was a living checkerboard.

“Well…?” Sherlock was still looking down at him, ego the size of his messy hair and as dark as his jacket.

John was sure everyone was looking at them. Oh, how people would talk the day after. Boring, good boy John Watson running off with Sherlock Holmes. Story of the ages.

John swallowed and nodded, “Yeah.” He said, a bit more shakily than he would’ve liked.  

Sherlock’s smile was of the devil, twisted and torn, but oh-so tempting. John couldn’t help but give in, breaking like weak clay at that smile.

Sherlock was certainly of the devil, and oh, how John wanted a taste of hell.


	2. Chapter Two

It turns out hell is on the back of a motorcycle at 79 miles-per-hour where John could feel the wind on his face and Sherlock’s body beneath him. It turns out hell is black curls and agitated gravel, and it turns out John doesn’t mind. John doesn’t mind having to grip Sherlock’s waist for dear life, or not knowing where he’s going or what he’s leaving behind, and it turns out that John likes more of this than he thought he would.

 Sherlock turned onto a road that seemed to go on forever, one side tall trees that blocked out the sun and the other, flat land, grass that moved together in waves.

 Sherlock got off the motorcycle and held out his hand for John. John could've left right now. He could've said sorry, and asked Sherlock to take him back. Instead he breathed in and took Sherlock's hand.

 Sherlock led John to the center of the clearing and sat, looking up at John.

 "You gonna sit, or just stare at me?"

 John shook his head and sat next to him, looking up at the sky.

 "I'm not gonna bite, ya know."

 John turned to look at him. His eyes were almost clear in the sun. He wondered if Sherlock knew his eyes looked like that. He wondered if beautiful people recognized that they were beautiful.

 "Why'd you ask? Why'd you talk to me to begin with?"

 Sherlock looked at the grass, then back to John, and with a small shrug said, "I wanted to see if you'd say yes."

 

 John didn’t know what he was doing. He knew that grass was under him, and Sherlock was on top of him, and Sherlock's eyes were burning brighter than he had ever seen. Hot breath lingered with his, and all he saw was pale skin and pink lips, and he was so close and so far from where he wanted to be.

 He didn’t know where his hands were, or if he would ever find them again as Sherlock’s mouth moved in ecstasy around John’s.

 Slow. He held back, yes, but guided instead of dominating. Simply teaching instead of taking. Their mouths were open but no tongue intruded. John instead got hints and glimpses of it. Nothing more.

 Traces of Sherlock's tongue on his neck, hints on his jaw. He hoped marks wouldn’t be left, but in the back of his mind he wanted them to show. He wanted everyone to see what Sherlock Holmes did. How he claimed John, and how John wanted him to.

Everything was so new. Lips on his, hands in his hair, fresh marks on his neck, all by a guy. It made his mind stop dead in it’s tracks.  

 All by a guy. A man. A hard body and flat chest, little curves and _such_ a talented mouth. Cold, rough hands under his shirt and sharp edges cutting into him, threatening to tear him apart.

 John couldn’t tell you how he felt about it. His only thought was the mouth now at his stomach. Tongue darting out, flicking, driving John crazy. There was ringing in his ears and he didn’t know if those sounds were from him or Sherlock.

  John's mouth was half open, and his heartbeat was through the roof as he could feel red, black, blue, and purple, form under his skin. As he could feel humming on his chest and a hand traveling lower than it should. His mind caught up, and his body stiffened.

“I can’t…"He pushed Sherlock to arms length.  "I shouldn’t be doing this.” Sherlock just looked at him, his gaze shifting from spring showers to harsh winter with just those few words. John's shirt fell like a curtain, shutting down the show.

_Goodbye folks, hope you had fun, time to go back to real life._

“I mean… I can’t.” He couldn’t take Sherlock's glare. John stared down at the space between them, at the negative space, only filled by wind and tension.

  _Why did real life have to be this?_

 It was all _hypothetical_. Sherlock not liking girls. Sherlock liking boys instead. It had to be hypothetical, because they both knew- everyone knew- you don't _go_ with guys. You don't do anything with guys other than be friendly.

“You can’t?” Was all Sherlock said.

 John shook his head, his hands still pushing Sherlock away, wishing, pleading that he would leave because if he didn’t, John wasn’t sure he would be able to muster up the courage to do it himself.

 All of it made John dizzy. All of the ice and warm blood. Sherlock looking at him like he was seeing right through him. He looked like he wouldn’t stop until John was completely gone. Until John was someone else.

Sherlock shook his head, “You can, John."

John shook his head back urgently, “No… Sherlock, please.”

 His breath found it’s way to John’s ear, and he could feel the vague shape of Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke.

 “Please, what? Please, touch you? Please, leave bruises and marks and _please, Sherlock,_ keep going.”

John shuddered. _Yes_. Yes, he wanted all of that. He could feel his breath quicken at the words, at the hot breath in his ear, whispering and kissing, and before John could push him away again, Sherlock’s hands were under his shirt and John’s were in his hair. Pale flesh seen through a mess of dark curls, and John gave in under him. He didn’t let Sherlock’s hands go lower than his waist, nor his mouth lower than his neck, but just a tiny bit of him broke free on that grass.

 On the ride back, John felt something he never had before. His heart was too big for his chest, and a smile was glued to his face. John felt like he was in a world all of his own when he was with Sherlock. A world no one could touch.

 

 When John got back to school he felt like he was keeping a secret. Like every mark under his clothes and every word Sherlock whispered in his ear was another one he was forced to hide. It was almost a relief coming home to an empty house, where no one would ask questions about where he had been.

 The moment Sherlock’s lips connected with his kept replaying in his head. Eyes so blue it almost didn’t seem possible and how time slowed and sped up all at once as Sherlock came closer and closer and….

 John couldn’t get over that he had kissed a boy. Not just anyone, but _Sherlock Holmes_. James Dean aftermath. Leather and motorcycles. Whispered breaths of girls in the hallways. On the tip of every tongue, and now on John’s. Actually on John's. Not just a fantasy, but a memory.

He pulled at his sheets with one hand, as the other felt at the marked skin through the fabric of his shirt, the only evidence of Sherlock’s hands on him, his lips on him. John blocked everything from his mind except his own hands. If he focused on anything else, he would end up punching a wall or throwing a vase.


	3. Chapter Three

For the next week, John did his best to ignore Sherlock's attempts at starting a conversation and soft wolf whistles as John walked by. He didn't let his eyes linger, even when Sherlock's burned holes through him. He made his way through the halls with his books tight to his chest, keeping his head down as best he could.

 Sure, he felt like he was being pulled from the inside out, but he could deal with that. He could pretend it was something else. School stress, or home life. He could focus on the feeling rather than why it was there.

 Of course, no matter how much John pretended like nothing had happened, there were still the kids who wouldn't shut up about it. Molly being one of them. John heard all the new rumors from her.

 "He and Sherlock had just gone to an ice cream parlor."

"No, they went a town over."

"No, they went to _Sherlock's_ house."

Molly said that some of them swore that they had robbed a bank together.

 By the end of the week, John was barely sure what had actually happened, all he knew was that he was glad he would have a whole two days without false conclusions flying over his head.

 But, the weekend was as bad, probably worse, as John couldn't even drown out what had actually happened in his head with voices of his teachers, or smother it in his books. His house was quiet, which only made more room for a mind full of leather jackets and warm flesh. When it wasn't silent enough for John to practically hear the neighbors, he could hear the crashing of dishes or the slamming of doors, from either his sister or dad. He couldn't tell which, the smell of booze came with both.

 John walked into school next Monday, confident he was done with Sherlock, over it. Until Sherlock decided he wasn't done with him.

 

 Molly was already ahead of John, skipping her way to class, when a shadow pulled him under the staircase. John already knew who it was by the stench of smoke in the air, and the feeling of rough hands on his wrist.

 "Hey, Doll."

 "Don't call me that." John hissed, looking around frantically at anyone passing by. No one was there. Everyone was doing the smart thing and avoiding this chaos.

 "Take a chill pill, no one pays that much attention, anyway."

 "You'd be surprised."

 "I really wouldn't."

 John huffed heavily, almost as if to push Sherlock back with his breath.

 "You've been ignoring me."

 "Kind of hard to, if you didn't notice."

 Sherlock smirked, and there it was. The hell John couldn't push away. The pulling on his lungs, and the dryness in his throat, all of it- _all of it_ \- was right there. Damn him.

 Sherlock pulled at John's collar, looking him dead in the eyes (oh, those eyes) and leaned in. John was already closing his eyes, and angling his chin for a kiss that never came. Sherlock stopped just short, and John could feel the shape of his mouth as he spoke.

 "Don't think I'm letting you go, John."

 John thought about pushing him to the ground. He probably could at this point. Run off with what was left of his sanity.

 "There's nothing to let go of, Sherlock." He pushed him off "It was one goddamn day. A week ago, I might add."

 Sherlock pushed him back against the wall, and opened his mouth to say something, but bared his teeth instead, then leaned back in and sucked a harsh mark right above John's collar.

 Before John could respond Sherlock had already turned on his heel and left, leaving John slightly out of breath and late to class.

  Every time he saw Sherlock in the hallways after that, he could feel the wet heat of his mouth on his skin. He could feel every fading (and not so fading) mark tingle, and flare up like faulty wiring.

 More heads turned when John walked by, and more breaths floated around him when he sat at his desk.

"Real lady-killer that one."

"Must be fun."

 "Thought he was too precious for that."

 Whispers followed him all the way to the last bell and outside where Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John breathed a sigh of relief, and enjoyed the fresh air on his way home.

 It was all fine. Sherlock had probably given up on him, and probably didn't actually want, nor mean what he said to John. Of course he didn't.

 His heart stopped when he saw Sherlock, all long limbs and grey accents, sitting in his driveway.


	4. Chapter Four

John wasn’t too sure how Sherlock got into his house. He had blurred memories of trying to push him away, of telling him that he couldn’t come in, but all he knew was Sherlock was lying on his bed, flicking ash everywhere, threatening to set his room, and his life, on fire.

 John was pacing.

 He had to get him out. He had to stop this before he got too involved. He had to--

"What're you thinking about?" Sherlock cut in.

"Nothing you have a part of."

"I politely disagree."

"I wouldn't think of you as polite."

"What would you think of me as then?"

_Fire. A wildfire._

"An ass." John tilted his head up, "Too arrogant for your own good."

"So arrogant is your type then?"

John sputtered, "You are most certainly not my type."

"Last week would also politely disagree."

"Last week was something that shouldn't have happened."

Sherlock shrugged. John wanted to punch him.

"Do you always dress like that?" Sherlock asked, flicking ash onto his carpet.

"I could ask you the same."

"But alas, I asked first."

John sighed, "Why do you care?"

"You look like a stuffed animal."

John pulled at his sweater vest, "I think it's fine."

"I think it's more than fine. I'm just curious."

_Damn your curiosity._

"Why are you here anyway?"

 "To berate you on how you decorate your room."

 John looked around. There was nothing wrong with his room. He kept it neat and tidy, made his bed every morning, cleaned off his desk every night. He had a few movie posters up, and a few comic books strewn about, but besides that everything was normal…plain almost.

Sherlock sucked in a breath free of cigarette smoke, "Did you enjoy it?" His head dropped to one side. He wasn't looking at John, "I mean, you certainly did in the moment, but do you regret it now?"

Sherlock's voice was too high and too quiet. He was looking at his cigarette in hand, his other one tapping on his thigh.

John sighed and sat in his desk chair, facing Sherlock, "I don't think it should've happened."

Sherlock's eyes darted to John's before his head turned, "But?"

He rubbed his hands on his thighs and looked at the ground, "I don't know…"

Sherlock sat up properly and crossed his legs, "You know, I'm not gonna shout this from the rooftops. "

John paused, "Why do you want to know?"

"It'll put my mind at ease."

"Because you do look like the worrying type." John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock glared at John, his eyes freezing over for the second time since he'd first brought John on that god forsaken ride.

  "Would you rather me come over to ask about the weather? Maybe your grades, or family troubles." He smashed his cigarette into the side of John's bedframe and hopped off the bed.  
 John crossed his arms and didn't budge. If Sherlock was trying to make him feel guilty, it wouldn't work.

 "Whatever." He flicked his cigarette onto the carpet, "Keep denying yourself then."  
 He huffed, "Everyone else would say I'm being smart."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He really needed to stop doing that, "What does _everyone else_ know about what's smart for you."

 John did his meanest look, "How would you? You're not always right, you know."

This earned a little smile from Sherlock, "No. Of course not, but I tend to be much quieter when I'm wrong, John."

John kept his shoulders squared as Sherlock stepped closer and lifted John's head. His fingers were cold on his chin. John tried not to shiver.

 "What's one little kiss gonna hurt, Doll?"

 He was right of course. Sherlock wouldn't tell anyone- couldn't really. They would both get in trouble, possibly locked up, and it wasn't like John actually _didn't_ want to. He just couldn’t. He didn't know what would be left of him if he did. He would just be a whispered name on church gossipers' tongues. A small town scandal. A cigarette burn on his family's name.

 He shook his head and jerked his chin out of Sherlock's grasp, "Everything."

 Sherlock stood straight, "You say that, but what's been hurt so far?" He cocked his head, "Really, you have nothing to lose at this point."  
"And if this keeps going?"

He leaned down, right next to John's ear, "Then you have me to gain."  
John felt a shiver run up his spine, despite his whole body feeling like fire even after Sherlock pulled away.

"Or you get to figure me out, whichever."

John looked into his lap, "If it was that easy, wouldn't everyone know how you work by now?"

John could see him shrug, "You would think so, but apparently, I'm not worth anyone's time."

John raised an eyebrow and looked up at Sherlock.

 He opened his mouth and then closed it. Then-

 "Do you really think that?" John bit his lip.

  Sherlock looked surprised, but in a flash it was gone.

 "I think…" He looked up at John's ceiling, "I think I test people's patience-" John snorted. Sherlock glared at him, "I think people would much rather choose something easier." He sat back on the bed.  
"So you're the harder option?"  
"Have you not met me?"

John shook his head, "Barely."

Sherlock grinned, "You want to?"

He snorted, "Barely."

"Thanks." He already had another cigarette in hand.

A smile was on John's face even as it faced the floor, "Maybe." He sighed, " I don't know."

 John must've been losing his mind. Sherlock chuckled, and John felt warmth from his face all the way to his fingertips.

"I mean, how am I supposed to know?"

 Sherlock seemed to constantly pulling John in different directions. One moment he thought he was a jerk, and the next he made John laugh. It both confused and fascinated John. He stood from the chair and sat on the bed, next to Sherlock.

"I have a theory." Sherlock said after a moment.

John raised his eyebrows, "Do you?"

"Mm, yes." He moved just a microscopic amount closer, hitting just the right angle for the setting sun to hit the top of his curls and dance in his eyes.

"Are you gonna tell me what it is, or are you gonna bargain for it?"

Sherlock made a sound between a laugh and a breath, "I could do both."

He was moving ever so slightly closer, making John's heart speed up more and more the closer Sherlock got.

John's eyes fell to Sherlock's lips, then back up, hoping that it were too fast for Sherlock to notice, but really, nothing was too fast for Sherlock, or too much. He could run the world at this point, but here he was in John's bed. God, and John was saying no. Of course he was saying no.

  _How could he say yes?_

 Really it was easy, just one word, one syllable, three letters, and John would have him. He could take all he wanted from Sherlock if he stayed long enough, he could destroy him if he had the will. He could crush everything that was and is Sherlock Holmes with the right word, the right phrase, or the right body language.

 But John didn't really want to.

 "John?"

 He snapped out of his thoughts, "Yes?"

 "I think we're similar."

 John cocked his head, and kept his eyes on Sherlock, " _Do_ you?"

"Oh yes. See, I think we both want to get out of here. I think we both hate everyone and everything here."

John looked him up and down, "I wouldn't be surprised if you did, but I don't think I'm quite as pessimistic."

"No?"

John shook his head, "I mean, I have a decent life, a decent house, I'm not disfigured or in the war-"

"Yet."

"Exactly, so I should enjoy it."

"Humans are built to be bored, John, it's what makes us different from the apes who can pick fleas all day long and don't think about a higher purpose."

"So, then, does that make you more human than you like to think?"

"You barely know what I like to think."

"I have a good idea."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You're drifting from the point. Humans always want more, I'm just able to say it."

"So, am I less human for not saying it?"

"Well, humans are also very inclined to lie."

"Why would I need to lie about that?"

"To convince yourself that you're fine. To not go insane."

John raised an eyebrow, "Then how are you able to keep it together? Are you just better than all of us?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Who said I was sane?"

John sighed and flopped back on his bed, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling.

"When I was younger I used to try to make shapes out of the uneven paint, so I could make stories."

 John didn't really know why he said that. There was no point in making conversation. In fact, he probably shouldn't make conversation, so he doesn't give Sherlock any reason to keep talking to him.

 Sherlock fell back next to him and John could feel his legs right next to his but not touching. Sherlock's feet almost touched the ground. Maybe his bed was too short. Maybe John was too short.

Sherlock raised his arm and pointed up, "What's that one?"

John scooted a bit closer to him, so he could see what Sherlock was pointing at better. Their hips were just a hair from touching.

"Um…" He turned his head a bit, "It looks like a rhino." He raised his arm next to Sherlock. He wondered if they would look like conjoined twins with this many limbs this close.

"Or an abnormally lumpy cloud."

John let his arm fall across his stomach, "They all look like lumpy clouds. That's boring."

"Or realistic."

"This isn't about realism, Sherlock." He turned his neck to face him. Sherlock faced him in return.

"Then what's it about?"

"Imagination." He said in a mockingly wispy tone.

"Hm." He looked back up at the ceiling, "Then that one," He pointed up again, "Looks like a building. A wavy building."

"A wavy building?" He looked to Sherlock "Why would there be a wavy building?"

Sherlock just shrugged.

John laughed, and tried to think of a reason for there to be a wavy building, but Sherlock's features were much too distracting. Everything about his face was long and translucent, down to his eyelashes. His hair was even messier than usual, the blankets behind him doing little to hold them down as they still fell in all directions around his head.

Sherlock's smile was something soft once John got down to it. He jerked his head back to the ceiling.

"Sherlock?"

 "Here."

 "Stay for awhile?"

 "Of course, Doll."


	5. Chapter Five

(little bit longer than the others…)

 

John was tired. He felt it in every fiber of his being, every breath he took, every time he moved. When he looked in the mirror he could see it in his skin, in his veins. He considered staying home just to get an extra hour of sleep. He could probably get away with it.

 Sherlock drained him in a way that no one else had, and in a way he didn't notice until he had left, which was long after they made shapes on the ceiling. Sherlock kept John up practically  all night, asking him questions about _everything_. Everything John had an opinion about and a lot of things he didn't. Sherlock was easily the most curious person John ever met.

 In the brief moments that Sherlock was quiet, John wasn't even annoyed at how much Sherlock had been talking. Actually, it felt kind of nice to have someone ask him all that, because Sherlock was actually interested (or at least it seemed) in John's answers.

 Sherlock snuck out of the window when he had finally decided it was time to go home, his hair practically a nest, and his shirt in a fashion that no well intending mother would ever allow. He asked John if he would let him in again, but John didn't know.

 On one hand he felt terrible for not automatically saying yes. Of course he wanted Sherlock back, all the time, everyday, but on the other hand he knew that at this point it didn't matter what answer he gave. He could feel his resolve slipping like a mudslide, or an out of control spark, burning every "no" in his mind.

 

 At school, Molly wouldn't leave him alone.

 "People say Sherlock showed up at your house and they never saw him leave."

 "People say that you two were doing something illegal."

 "People say that you two actually _did_ something."

"People say th-"

"Damn what people say!" John threw his hands in the air, the thin crowd in homeroom all turning to stare at him.

"I don't care what people say. None of it is true." He hissed through his teeth.

"But, _John._ First it's gonna be people just saying it, but then it's gonna be people believing it. It won't matter whether or not it's true."

John kicked at the shiny floor, "It'll matter to me."

Molly pursed her lips, and John wondered how long it would take for her to get wrinkles.

\--

John couldn't walk two feet without stares or whispered questions for the entire day. He had a headache since his first class, and his eyes stung beyond belief. He gave up trying to pay attention in classes and just hoped that he looked awake.

 By the time he got home he was dead on his feet. He felt like he would never be truly awake again, his whole life from now on would be blurred and fuzzy. He walked up the stairs with his eyes half closed, not even caring that his sister actually looked in his direction as she made her way out the door.

 He dropped face down on his bed the moment he got in the door. God, he was tired. He could fall asleep right now…

 Then someone who wasn't John, cleared their throat.

John's head sprung up. He turned slightly, and out of the corner of his eye saw a small movement. He rolled over and pulled himself up into a sitting position.  
"Why am I not surprised?"

Sherlock smirked, "You sound like a comic book villain."

"How'd you even get in here?"

"Flew through the window."

 John laughed and rolled his eyes, "Alright, Superman."

 He tapped his fingers on the arm of John's desk chair.

"Actually, I thought we could do something together."

 John raised his eyebrows, "Yeah, how 'bout we sleep."

 Sherlock smirked, "We could definitely sleep together."

 John scoffed, "Not like that. I'm tired."

 "Boring."

 John sighed heavily, "Fine. What do you suggest?"

Sherlock spun side to side in the chair. There was a heavy silence in the space between John's breaths, and an even heavier one between Sherlock's.

 "…How 'bout a date?"

"A date?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, we can go to a diner, get a couple-a milkshakes, I'll pay."

"As good as free food sounds, why now? And what if someone sees us?"

"People see us at school."

"Not like that. People'll talk."

"People do little else."

"Sherlock." He set his jaw.

"John, come on. If anyone does talk, I'll dent 'em."

John pursed his lips. He was gonna get wrinkles, just from Sherlock.

 "I thought you would like it, with all your value in traditional courtship."

 "Like _this_ is traditional. And…I like the idea of it."

 Sherlock cocked his head, expecting John to elaborate.

 He sighed, "I mean…I like the idea of going somewhere with you, of this-whatever it is-mattering."

 "Do you think it doesn't matter?"

 "Does it?" John asked, "We barely go outside my bedroom, and when we do it's to school, where we can't even look at each other without every person talking, and I…" His voice lowered, "I don't even know what _this_ is."

 That seemed to shut Sherlock up. He stared into his lap, and took his time coming up with a response, every second feeling longer than the last.

  _Tick…_

_Tock…_

_Tick…_

_To-_

 "What do you want it to be?"

John took his own moment to respond. He didn’t really know what he wanted. He played with the idea of this being real, but he knew it couldn't be. They could seriously get in trouble, someone could find out, or both of them could just end up hurt.

 He looked up, and Sherlock was already there, just a few inches away. John could pull him closer, pull him under his thumb.

 Sherlock's long fingers made their way to John's chin, it shot electricity down John's spine all the way to the tips of his fingers. It caught John off guard, but then again, Sherlock always did.

"If this didn't matter, I wouldn't still be here, Doll." There was just a hint of a smile in his eyes.

 "Sherlock…" John liked the way his name sounded, where the first half was just a breath on John's tongue.

 Sherlock chuckled and his head dropped, his hair falling over his face. John knew he was dangerous, that his whole family would be shocked, ashamed of the thoughts going through John's head, but Holy Mother of God, look at him. His smile could start a fire, and is eyes could burn down a whole forest. Hell, that's probably his goal.

 "I've been out of my mind thinking about you, John." He met his eyes again, and John could swear they were a different color.

  John allowed himself a small grin, "You sound sleazy when you do that voice."

 "What voice?"

 John did a breathy laugh, "The one you use when you try to convince me to kiss you."

 "Does it work?" He smiled back just as wide.

 He snorted, "I just said it makes you sound sleazy."

 "Sleazy works for some people."

 John made a face, "Not for me."

 "No?" The voice made a return, "What does work for you then?"

 The space between them was too wide, but John still wanted to push him back. He still wanted to push Sherlock out of his life...Get himself away from anything flammable.

  Instead, John tilted his head, just slightly up, his lips just _slightly_ open, and Sherlock grinned like the first time they had met, all wolf teeth and hell. 

How was he supposed to resist that?

 Sherlock was leaning ever closer, and he seemed to take up John's entire world, entire being. He was everything John could focus on, everything he wanted in that moment.

 Sherlock's lips met John's and the world buzzed around them. A bull could charge through the window and John wouldn't know the difference. Sherlock kissed him like it was the last time he could, like John was his last breath. John had never felt so utterly, and completely taken in his entire life.

 Sherlock had pushed him back onto the bed, and John could smell the smoke on him, on his worn leather and cotton shirt. He destroyed every protest John had, consumed them in an instant. John couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

 Sherlock's hands were under John's vest and-

 He pulled Sherlock off him, who was just as out of breath as he was, and scrambled into a sitting position. Sherlock's eyes were almost black. John's probably were too.

 "It's not…Not here, not now." He tugged a hand through his hair, "Oh my god, Sherlock."

 Small pause.

 "Too much?" Sherlock asked.

 "A bit."

 Sherlock chuckled softly. He sat across from John and stared into space for a second, chewing on his lip.

"I feel kinda…tired." He said softly.

"That must be a first."

 He chuckled, "You're an ass."

 "I think I'm just picking up on how you act."

 "Flattering."

 "You're looking at my lips." John said even though he was looking at Sherlock's too. He wondered how they could fit so well with John's, how it was even possible for them to make John's heart race and blood pressure spike.

 "Have you ever smoked, John?"

 "I don't think it's a smart idea to inhale smoke, and tar, and who knows what else, into my lungs."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes and unrolled his sleeve, pulling out a small box.

 "I still find it weird to keep them in your sleeves. Do they not fall out?"

 "Not if you do it right." He tapped one out and held it out to John, "Here."

John shook his head and waved his hand in front of him, "I don't think I should."

"You've done plenty you shouldn't've."

"Which is why I should stop now."

 "Which is why _you should keep going_." He hissed through his teeth.

 John took the cigarette and rolled it in between his fingers, "I don't think that logic is sound."

 "C'mon, it's not that friggin' hard, John." He held one between his own fingers, before placing it between his teeth. He held out a lighter to John.

 "You act like you're about to kill your mother. And you say _I'm_ dramatic." He clicked the lighter.

 "You _are_ dramatic." He sighed and put the cigarette in his mouth.

 "I thought you like it." He chuckled and leaned forward to light it, "You won't really do it right the first time, it'll probably make you cough- or puke."

John scoffed, "Is that what makes it so cool?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes then kept them fixed on John, watching him attempt to take a drag. John tried to make it look cool, but the moment it hit his throat he could feel a cough coming, and it wasn't long before it came out.

 "Friggin' hell," He choked out, "Why'd you start doing _that?_ "

 Sherlock  took a long, smooth drag from his own cigarette. Show-off.

 "My brother said he couldn't stand the smell."

 John laughed, and looked down, "I don't mind it."

 The smoke just reminded him of Sherlock. He rolled that thought over again and again in his head. He kinda liked being reminded of Sherlock.

 John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. He pretended he couldn't. He felt a little nauseous, a little dizzy, and a little giddy, all rolled into one. He still had the cigarette in his hand but didn't plan on taking another drag.

 "You say you aren't attracted to me," Sherlock cut in, "but you're showing clear signs that you are." Sherlock's head fell to the side and John could see all the muscles in his neck.

  John tried not to sputter, "I never said I wasn't attracted to you." He shook his head slightly.

 That made Sherlock raise his eyebrows, "Oh? Then, are you attracted to me, John?"

 "I…" He sighed and looked up, "I never said I wasn't."

 Sherlock took another drag, "You're making progress." He smirked just a bit, just enough for John to notice it.

 "You look at me like you've finally completed the circuit."

John did sputter that time, "Excuse me?"

 "You look at me with this light behind your eyes that I've never seen before, and I like to think I'm the source of it."

 "You're assuming."

 "My assumptions are usually right."

 John shifted and crossed his arms, "Are they?"

 Sherlock took one more drag, then launched into an explanation so fast it made John's head spin, "You're interested in med school, most likely to become an army doctor, or something similar. You don't get along well with your sister, which is why she hasn't been here, or at least, why I haven't seen her. I assume it's because she goes out late at night, and you convince yourself that you're just worried about her, but really, you want to be doing the same thing." The smoke was coming out with his words, almost just as fast, "You want to be in bars, at clubs, you wish you could forget just as easily as that. You're dad certainly isn't around much, and all the pictures of your mother are old, too old. She either left or died.

   "You want to get out of what you think is a shitty life at times, but at the same time you know you shouldn't complain. You don't know how to actually care for someone, or what it feels like to fall for someone. You probably think I'm gonna leave you whenever I 'get what I want.' I assure you, John, I won't."

  John was breathless. That was…

 "…Amazing."

 Sherlock's eyebrows dipped together, "That isn’t what people normally say."

 "I mean, how did you…?"

 "I assumed. More or less."

 "From what? Public record?"

 "Humans are predictable, John. All I did was use precedent."

 John stared at Sherlock. He couldn't have possibly known all that.

 "I'm just able to observe more than others. Though it is flattering to have you looking at me like I'm a god."

John shook his head, and scooted a bit closer, "Are you able to do that with everyone?"

 "So far. How well did I do?"

 "Uh…" John shook his head, and shrugged, "I've wanted to go to medical school for as long as I can remember, Harry and I don't get on, haven't in a while, and…" He nodded, "My mom's been gone awhile."

 John almost snorted at himself. _Gone._

 Sherlock's face was mostly blank, but there was a slight dip in eyebrows and a slight turn in his lips that John couldn't help but notice.

 John frowned.

 Sherlock carried on, "I'm getting good."

 John rolled his eyes, "Now, tell me about you."

 Sherlock cocked his head, "Why?'

 "Because you practically forced my past out of me, so it's your turn."

 "Rather, your present, and I didn't force it out of you. I already knew."

 John leaned forward, "Tell me about yourself, Sherlock."

 "How 'bout you tell me what you see."

 John snorted, "Well, I've got it made in the shade, don't I?""

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's not supposed to be fair, it's supposed to be fun."

 "And since when do you care about fun?"

 "Well, obviously, since I met you." He grinned.

 John pulled his lips tight and stared at Sherlock for a long few moments.

 "Hm…Nothing. I got nothing."

 Sherlock laughed, something high and careless, nothing like John had heard from him before. Sherlock's laughs had always been low and quiet, like Sherlock himself. They made John feel warm, but this one grabbed onto his heart and tugged. It made him smile back.

 "You sound tired." John said.

 "Don't try to get out of this."

 "I'm not. You sound tired."

 "I'm not." His mouth hung open on the last letter. John could've kissed him right there.

 "So, tell me. What do you see, John?"

 John looked at him for a few moments, really looked at him. He started from the top. Long face, sharp cheekbones that practically casted shadows on his jaw, and lips just as sharp. The bottom of his ears poked out of his hair, which was in shambles on his head. John wondered if he ever looked in the mirror.

 His eyes were blue, yes- but they were also gold, and pale green, and clear all at the same time. They could switch in an instant, or slowly fade from one to the other. John could never quite catch the change, the way you can't quite catch a sunset. You look around and suddenly it's just dark.

  His eyebrows always seemed to be furrowed or raised. He was always pouting or indignant. Black or white. Really, Sherlock was full of contradictions.

 "I see…" Eyes, lips, _a damn smirk_ forming under the surface, "I don't know. Nothing new."

 Sherlock's rainbow colored eyes thinned, "Interesting."

 "Interesting?"

 "You see plenty."

 "I-" John let his mouth hang open. Sherlock was making him feel more and more idiotic with every word.

 Sherlock sat back, "I think you're the only person who looks at me like that."

 "With the 'light behind my eyes' or something."

 Sherlock grinned just a bit, "Exactly."


	6. Chapter Six

John convinced Sherlock to wait until Friday. Sherlock said he was gonna pick John up himself, he wanted it to be as close to a real date as possible. (John had come around to calling it a date. Somewhere between Sherlock kissing him and John getting ready.) 

 "I didn't take you for the romantic type." He said, Sherlock's head right by his, staring at nothing, the same as John. Sherlock just shrugged.

 By that time Sherlock's eyes were drooping and John didn't know if he should tell him to go home or let him fall asleep right there.

 

 John didn't dress up for the date. He wore a sweater, pants and shoes. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides combing his hair to the side.

 His sister used to tell him stories of when she went out with guys. (Years ago, when she still cared enough to talk to John.) She would come into his room on Friday night, right after a date, and tell John everything that was wrong with it. She always looked the same as usual (she never dressed up for a date, always said it was pointless. If the guy didn't like her when she dressed normal then he didn't like her at all.)

 John sighed and looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered what Sherlock saw in him. John wasn't exactly special, in fact, he worked hard not to be. He liked staying low, being one of the pack.

 He thought of Sherlock, with his tight black-washed jeans and leather jackets. He wasn't one of the pack, never would be. People couldn't handle Sherlock, part of the reason he didn't make friends.

 John could barely handle Sherlock. He was in a constant state of fatigue when Sherlock wasn't around, and when he was John's head felt like it was gonna explode. Maybe it was just because he wasn't used to using it.

 John turned when he saw a flash of headlights in his window. He smiled to himself and bounced down the stairs, trying not to break his ankle in the process.

 He smoothed out his clothes and opened the door with a bit more apprehension in his body than he would've liked. Sherlock was already standing there, white sleeves rolled up past his shoulders and black washed jeans high above his ankles. His hair was pushed down with a flat top hat, but still sneaked under the visor, curling it's way over Sherlock's eyes. All the air left John's lungs.

 He smirked at John, "Ready?"

 He let his eyes linger for a moment before nodding, "Yeah…"

Sherlock chuckled, "Shocked?" He asked, removing a pack of cigarettes from his rolled up sleeve and tapping one out.

John snorted, "Don't flatter yourself." He forced his feet to step forward, towards the car, and towards hell in the process. Funny, he felt like he'd been here before.

 "So, diner, then I thought we could catch a flick at the drive-in." Sherlock said.

 John brushed his fingers against the car, which had a cherry red paint job, shiny rims, and fender. It was in perfect condition, perfect style.

 John could smell the cigarette close to him before he heard Sherlock's voice, "It's my brother's. He never drives it."

 John knew nothing about cars, but he knew money when he saw it. He slid into the passenger seat, running his hands along the interior.

 "It's nice. I like it." He grinned at Sherlock.

 "Good." He walked around and slid beside John, his arm resting on the top of the seat, not quite around John. Half of John wanted to tell Sherlock to put his arm down, the other half wanted Sherlock to pull him close.

 Sherlock was barely going over 60 as they drove. John looked at the road, then to Sherlock. He was biting his lip ever so slightly, just pulling on the inside of his mouth.

 "Hey, Sherlock?"

 His head spun towards John, then back to the road.

 "You can go faster, ya know."

 The side of Sherlock's mouth lifted, "I wish you would say that more often."

 John rolled his eyes and felt a small jolt forward as they sped up.

\--

Sherlock ordered a milkshake, but let John sneak drinks of it when he wanted. He sat across from him, but would bump their feet together whenever he could. He stared at John with all the willpower of the world, and John was sure Sherlock could move mountains at that point.

 John tried not to smile too much, or too little. He was able to keep conversation and note of Sherlock's expressions through the entire meal. He got really good at noticing both the shifts in the planes of his face, and what they meant.

 John felt like _he_ could move mountains at that point.

 Sherlock drove him to a movie- a passion pit. John never liked that term very much, especially now that he was going with Sherlock. He really did want all of this to matter in some small way. It wouldn't be better for either of them, it would probably just make things more complicated, and it drained John, but he couldn't help but yearn for meaning.

 John had never been to a drive-in with a girl, but that doesn't mean he was oblivious to the petting going on around him in backseats of the dim cars. He had thought about asking some plastic doll, paper shaker, out and bringing her here. But not only did he tear himself apart long before asking her out, he also didn't care enough to actually do it. The only reason he would was to say he had.

 Maybe that was a better option than going with Sherlock. He should be at home, safe under the soft covers of his bed, not here with a burning flame. Someone would definitely see them. Without a doubt.

 Sherlock was saying something in disbelief. Probably about the choices of the main character by the way his emotions were playing out across his face.

 Everyone said Sherlock didn't have a heart, didn't have feelings, but John could see them clearly. He could also see how Sherlock thought they weren't there. He liked the idea of people leaving him alone, but John wasn't too sure if he actually liked being alone. He seemed to like John around. Either that or John really was an idiot.

 "I see it…" The words slipped off of John's tongue before he could catch them.

 Sherlock threw his hands up, "Exactly. This is completely unreali-"

 "Sherlock."

 He turned towards John, his face falling just a touch when he saw John's, "What? See what?"

 "You." He sighed a bit, "God, Sherlock."

 He readjusted himself in his seat, "What are you talking about, John?"

 "You like being alone." He started slowly, " Well, you like people thinking you like to be alone. You think you deserve it. That you're too much effort, too much time. Oh, Sherlock."

  Sherlock didn't quite open his mouth but it wasn't quite closed either and John could see a hint of his tongue poking out between his teeth. John scooted a bit closer.

 "Sherlock, you’re not." He placed a hand on his shoulder, "You're completely brilliant. You don't have to be alone."

 He put his hand over John's, then sighed and shook his head, "Alone is what I have, John. Alone protects me."

 "I'll protect you instead."

 Sherlock scoffed, "You really do have a silver tongue."

 John smiled a bit, "Sherlock, you don't have to be alone."

 "Maybe I want to be."

 "I don't think you do."

 "You barely know anything about me."

"I can't believe you think that."

 Sherlock sighed and John shifted in his seat.

 "Then tell me about yourself." John's hand fell to Sherlock knee, Sherlock's eyes dropping with it.

   "I don't know what to tell you."

 "Anything. Any hobbies?"

 "I like solving puzzles." He took a breath, "Riddles, logic puzzles, thought experiments."

 John didn't know whether to smile or look impressed, so he did both, "What else?"

 "I like…learning. All I can."

 John just smiled wider, "So, you're a nerd."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Not in the typical sense."

 "But, still."

 Sherlock sighed, "Just have an interest in knowledge, as all should."

 "Tell me about your past."

  "In the middle of a drive-in?" He leaned in a bit, his hand making his way to John's thigh, "Where we could be doing something much more interesting."

 John chuckled softly, "Yes. Here. Because if I let you off now, you'll find a way to get me to let you off forever."

 "What should I start with?"

 John shrugged, "Family."

 Sherlock looked down "Well, you know about my brother."

 John nodded.

 "Uh…He's it really." The corner of his lip twitched, "I've lived with him since around eleven years old."

 John didn't miss a beat, "Why's that?"

 Sherlock sucked in a breath, "Dad's a drunk, Ma's a pushover. A situation you're slightly familiar with."

 John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock kept talking before John could say anything.

 "Mycroft decided to take me in when once he turned eighteen."

 John hummed and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's hand, "Well, he must want you around then."

  Sherlock chuckled, staring at John's hand, "Might've, at one point. I've worn out his patience by now."

 John didn't know Sherlock's brother, or his situation well enough to say otherwise, even though every bone in his body wanted to object. He just moved closer, so their knees could knock against each other.

 "You haven't worn out mine."

 "I'm flattered."

 John dipped his head down and flicked his eyes up, catching Sherlock's attention, "You're an ass. And a hassle. You tend to piss everyone off, without even realizing it."

 "Now, I'm really flattered."

 John kept his gaze, "But everyone deserves to feel like they belong. Like they're worth something." He squeezed Sherlock's hand, "Especially you."

 Sherlock looked at John for a long while. John could hear faint dialogue in the background, but he didn't care what it was. He'd meant what he said. Sherlock didn't deserve whatever he had now, and if that meant John being the one to give him better, then so be it.

 He looked down, took a breath, then leaned in. He thought of every moment that had led to this one, every question Sherlock had asked, every time John had tried to push him away, and every time he just wanted him closer, but didn't know how to ask.

 This kiss was softer than anything he had done with Sherlock. It was slow, and felt like _more_. It felt like John wasn't just kissing a boy, but kissing _Sherlock_ , who was more smoke and mirrors than fire.

 Sherlock's hands were on John's sweater, pulling him closer, with more urgency than he had ever expressed before, and John's hands were in Sherlock's hair. John was pushed back, his head just missing the door.

 John tried to communicate everything he had yet to say through that kiss. He wanted Sherlock to know everything he had thought from the moment John  saw him. He wanted Sherlock to know that he wanted him from the beginning, and that nothing felt more satisfying than having him right here.


	7. Chapter Seven

John was giggling. Actually giggling, as he pulled Sherlock into his house. The moment the door was shut Sherlock had him against the wall, leaving marks across his neck and jaw. John was out of breath before they even got to the living room.

 "Maybe we should just stay on the couch." Sherlock said, panting into John's neck.

 "And get caught by my sister, or better yet, my dad."

 Sherlock's lips twitched into a frown.

 John pulled him along into his bedroom, where Sherlock pushed him back onto the bed and threw his jacket over a chair.

 "You're nervous." Sherlock stated.

 "Why wouldn't I be?"

 Something flickered behind Sherlock's eyes, "You're a virgin."

 John didn't really know what to say to that. He was. No need to reiterate.

  Sherlock looked down at him, like a shadow looming over John. A shadow he wouldn't mind getting closer. He still felt a bit insecure about all of this. He knew it meant more than what it had at first, but how much exactly did it mean? John wished it was as simple as adding and subtracting. He wished he could measure the difference between the relationship before and after this date.

 Sherlock stepped forward and placed his legs on either side of John's hips. He leaned down and  kissed him softly, but John wasn't fooled. He saw fire in Sherlock's eyes and could feel the twitching in his fingers.

 John tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair and pulled him close. The kiss became harder and rougher, and John didn’t feel like Sherlock was holding back anymore. They both had enough of that, anyway.

 Sherlock found his way to John's neck again, adding to the marks that were already there. John's every nerve was on edge. He could feel every breath and every shift on top of him. His eyes were closed but he knew every move Sherlock was making.

 "Have you done this before?" John asked breathily.

 "That's a stupid question." Sherlock said, his hand making it's way under John's shirt.

 "Right, because you're always taking some girl out."

John opened his eyes, and Sherlock looked up,   "Jealous?"

 "Of course not. So, you've done this before?"

 "…Not like this." He sucked a mark onto John's stomach.

 "What's that mean?"

 Sherlock sighed and sat up, meeting John's eyes, "I don't count the paper shakers and soc's."

 "Why not?"

 "Because…" He bit his lip, "I don't care about them. Rather, I'm not that interested in them."

 John rolled his eyes, "So they don't count."

 "Exactly. They're more of distraction."

 "And I'm not?" He asked skeptically.

 Sherlock brought his shirt up more, and ran his thumb across the space right under John's ribcage, "No. Well, yes, but in a different way."

 "And that way is?"

 Sherlock huffed, "I didn't choose to be distracted by you."

 "I could say the same."

 Sherlock's head fell, a small smirk on his face, "John…I'm not interested in them."

 "You said that."

 "I'm not interested in...girls, John." he lifted his head.

 John blinked. He blinked again, "Oh. Okay. I thought you…"

 Sherlock shook his head, "Not really. Just distractions, John."

 It wasn't that surprising. Of course he was only interested in guys. John wondered if he should've been more shocked.

 "Have you ever…Have you ever actually been with a guy?"

 Sherlock took a moment before saying, "In a way. Nothing this far."

 John nodded and pulled Sherlock back in.

 It was a bit awkward at first, considering that John had no clue what he was doing. Sherlock was slower than John thought he would've been at this point.  John wasn't sure what he thought Sherlock _would've_ been like at this point. 

 "You'd tell me if I was doing something wrong, right?"

 "We're barely doing anything." Sherlock said. His head was already at John's waist. John was glad he could cover those marks up.

 "Right, _barely_." He rolled his eyes.

 "Oh yeah, I forgot you're a little virgin."

 "I will kick you out."

 Sherlock chuckled, pushed John's shirt up higher and whispered against his skin, "Take this off for me."

 John blinked, then couldn't come up with a reason not to. He sat up, Sherlock rolling off to the side, and pulled his shirt over his head.

 Sherlock smirked and John didn't know if he wanted to punch him or kiss him.

 Sherlock took John's mind off of everything he could worry about. John felt nothing but Sherlock, heard nothing but Sherlock, wanted nothing but Sherlock. John didn't care about the consequences if this is what he got in return.

 

 "Have you ever seen Rebel Without a Cause?" John asked quietly even though he didn’t really need to.

 "Never wanted to." Sherlock lit a cigarette and blew a puff of smoke into the air.

 John adjusted his head on Sherlock's chest, "It's good."

 "You're probably just saying that because James Dean is in it."

 John chuckled, "It's just generally good."

 "Right."

 "Have you ever actually watched any movie?"

 He shrugged.

 "Hm." John reached up and snatched his cigarette, "You know, James Dean's real cool."

 Sherlock frowned, then kissed the smirk right off John's face. John didn't mind.

 Sherlock took the cigarette back, "You'd pick him over me?"

 John snorted. Because Sherlock was actually asking. He actually thought it was a question.

 "I don't know James Dean, and I don't want to if it meant not getting to know you."

 For a second John couldn't believe he said that out loud.

 "I'd say you already got to know me."

 John shook his head, "I don't think so."

 "Well, I know _you_."

 "You have an unfair advantage." John pointed out.

 Sherlock didn't argue.

 "Besides," John pulled himself onto his side, and propping his head on his elbow, so he could better see Sherlock, "I doubt James Dean would have any interest in me."

 "He's missing out."

 John smiled, "That's probably the nicest thing you've said."

 "I doubt that."

 "Have you really never seen Rebel Without a Cause?"

 Sherlock shook his head, "Not interested in filling my head with predictable plots and sharp jawlines."

 "You fill your head with less important things."

 "In your perspective."

 "Is yours better?"

 "Don't people always think their perspective is better?"

 "Stop, my head hurts." He chuckled.

 Sherlock kissed his forehead, "It's late."

 "That's never stopped you before."

 "Don't you usually want me to go once it gets this late?"

 John swallowed, "…Stay a bit more."

 Sherlock flicked ash onto the floor, before pulling John back onto his chest, "It's your fault if we get caught."

 


	8. Chapter Eight

For the first time in his life, John woke up not just next to someone, but in their arms.

 When John first woke up, still in that space where he wasn't sure if he was dreaming or actually awake, all he could feel was warmth. When he opened his eyes all he saw was Sherlock. His hair was in his face and his eyes were still shut, and John thought Sherlock looked odd while he slept. He felt like he was watching something he shouldn't have been.

 Sherlock's eyes flung open soon after that. They dashed around the ceiling before landing on John and relaxing. John didn't know whether to smile at or kiss Sherlock.

 "We the only ones here?"

 John nodded, "As far as I know, but even if someone is here, they won't be for long."

 "I'm guessing it's usually like that?"

 John nodded.

 "Is it weird waking up next to someone, then?"

 "Not weird. Just…different."

 "How so?"

 John huffed, "It's too early for questions, Sherlock."

 "Well, at least I get to stay longer. Even though it's because you're alone most of the time anyway." He sat up and John rolled to the side.

 "You're frowning." Sherlock said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he left on the bedside table.

 "Masterful deduction." John stared up at the ceiling. He didn't feel lonely, but now that he thought about it, he was always kinda alone. He usually had the house to himself, and when he didn't his dad and sister where in their respective rooms most of the time, ignoring everyone else.

 "How 'bout we make a deal, then?"

 John turned his head, "What kind of deal?"

 Sherlock  blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, "Whenever you feel like  you would prefer to have someone besides your drunk family-"

 "Hey."

 "I can stay over here. For as long as you want."

 "That's…" He turned onto his side, "That's really nice." He thought about it for a moment, "What are you getting out of it?"

 Sherlock sighed, "Well, It's not like I want to be home that much either."

 "And why's that?"

 "Too early for questions, John." He gave a little mocking smile.

 John leaned over and kissed his cheek. Mostly because he could.

 "Then, how 'bout breakfast?" John said.

 "Look at you, perfect little housewife, aren't you?" He took another drag.

 John snorted, "Right."

 "All you need is a dress."

 "I will push you off this bed."

 "A red one, with polka dots."

 John shoved him. Sherlock laughed.

 "We can get ribbons for your hair too."

 "You're awful."

 Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, "Yet, you're still here."

 John huffed.

 Sherlock kissed his cheek, "Frankly, I'd think you look good."

 John looked at him for a moment before swinging his leg over Sherlock and sitting in his lap. Sherlock just stared at him, cigarette dangling out his mouth and a trace amount of a smirk on his face.

 "I've never sat like this before." John said stupidly.

 "I can tell."

 Of course Sherlock could tell, he was the only one John had done anything with.

 "I think I like it," Sherlock said keeping his hand on John's hip, keeping him close, grounded.

 "I think I like you." John said quietly. He knew he liked Sherlock, he knew he wanted him at this point, but just saying it felt like something bigger than when it was just in his head. Saying it made it feel real, like this could actually be something.

 There was a full minute of silence after that, in which John thought he had messed up. Sherlock was staring at him, the ash on the end of his cigarette growing by the second.

 After a moment, John reached for it and flicked the ash onto the floor for him. Then kissed him. Then did it again. Then he kissed everywhere he could reach. His cheek, his jaw, his lips.

 He did it without thinking. He did because he could, yes, but also because he wanted Sherlock to know that John wanted him. He wanted everything Sherlock could give him for as long as he wanted to give it to him.

 Sherlock was smiling wide, trying to keep up with John, but soon giving up in favor of letting him do what he wanted. John eventually got to Sherlock's neck, trying to mark him the way he did to John, but not really knowing if he was doing it right.

 "I think…Well, I've spent more time with you than I initially thought I would, and all of that time doesn’t feel wasted, so…I think I like you too." Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper towards the end.

 John smiled and looked up to Sherlock.

 "Well, I certainly like being around you. Sometimes."

 "Sometimes?" John asked

 "Well, sometimes you're an ass."

 "So are you." John said defensively.

 "Exactly. I don't expect you to want to be around me all the time, because I don't want you to expect the same from me."

 "Alright, then." John sighed.

 "So, breakfast?"

 "Breakfast."

\--

 They ate pancakes (made by John) with fried eggs (made by Sherlock) in John's room, on the floor.  When John finished he pushed his plate to the side and laid on his back. Sherlock soon did the same.

 "You didn't eat all of it." John said.

 "I don't need all of it."

 "Is that how you stay so thin?"

 Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 John tried not to chuckle. Sherlock really was thin, almost too thin. John could really see it now, since Sherlock wasn't wearing a shirt. (Despite John insisting that he should in case someone walked in.) John could count his ribs through his skin. He wondered what he ate at his house, and if his brother made him meals or not.

 "Sherlock?"

 "Here."

 "Why don't you want to be home?"

  _Pause._

"Lots of reasons , John."

 "Tell me one of them."

 Sherlock gave a heavy sigh, "I don't like who I live with."

 "Your brother?"

 Sherlock nodded.

 "Why not?"

 "Are you writing a book?" He spat, as his head spun towards John.

 John's eyebrows knit together, "I just…I just wanted to know more, Sherlock." He looked at the ceiling, "Sorry."

 John wondered what Sherlock's brother was like. Was he mean to Sherlock, or did Sherlock just find him irritating as he did most people? Did he find John irritating? He probably did now after all those questions. Maybe he just wasn't used to people asking him about home life.

 He looked back to Sherlock, whose face was pure stone. His jaw was set and his eyes were closed. He didn't look upset or mad, he just looked neutral. John wanted to ask him why he didn't like talking about it, but he also didn't want to Sherlock to put his guard up any more.

 Instead, he reached for Sherlock's hand. It wasn't that far apart to begin with, so all it took was one small movement and his hand was in John's.

 Sherlock's voice was quiet next time he spoke, "I think he just took me in because he had to, ya know? He just keeps me around because he can't do anything else with me."

 John squeezed his hand.

 "I mean, it's better than living with my mom and dad, but…"

 John nodded and scooted closer, so he could feel their hips touching. Sherlock turned his head to look at John.

 "I'd much rather be here."

 John smiled, "I'd much rather have you here too."


	9. Chapter Nine

Sherlock was over the whole day, even when John's dad came home only to slam his way through the house, despite John insisting that he leave at that point. During Sherlock's time there, two things became crystal clear in John's head:

 One, he liked having Sherlock around and wanted him around more.

 Two, Sherlock liked being around John too.

 He mulled it over for most of Sunday morning.

_He liked having Sherlock around._

 He liked being the one to make Sherlock both mad and happy. He liked laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He liked being able to just talk, without worrying about what Sherlock was gonna say, since Sherlock said odd things himself. He liked being asked questions and feeling like there was a reason he was being asked those questions. God, he just really liked Sherlock.

 On Monday he didn't even wait for Sherlock to find him. He scanned the crowd for him the moment he was able to, completely overlooking Molly, who made up for it by hitting him on the shoulder with a book.

 "So, you were with Sherlock all weekend?"

 John rolled his eyes, turning them to Molly instead of the crowd, "Not the whole weekend. Just Friday."

 "You didn't answer my call."

 "You called?" John looked over his shoulder.

 Molly hit him again, this time with her hand, "Yes, I called. You worried me. You were supposed to keep me updated remember?"

 John sighed and looked back to Molly, "Sorry."

 Molly pursed her lips, as if deciding whether or not she was mad. After a moment she shook her head.

 "As long as you didn't get yourself killed I'll live."

 John smiled.

 "So, what did you two do?" Molly asked, walking towards the front of the school.

 "Just went to a drive-in." John answered, following her.

 "Really? Was it weird going with a guy when all those couples were around?"

_No. We were one of them._

  John chuckled a bit, "At first, yeah, but I didn't really notice after a while."

  He didn’t know when it became so easy to lie to Molly. Sure, it's not like they made a blood pact, but they were each other's only friends. They told each other everything just because they had no one else to tell.

 Maybe it was because John didn't have to tell her everything now. In fact, it seemed more productive to tell Sherlock everything. Maybe John should feel bad about that.

 By the time Molly stopped asking questions the bell had rung, leaving them to run off to their class with John looking over his shoulder the whole way there.

 Sherlock wasn't in the hallways when John dashed between classes, and he wasn't there glaring John down at the front of the school either. In fact, John didn't see him all day.

 In his classes John was a mess. He couldn't sit still. Either his leg was shaking or his fingers was tapping on his desk all through the lesson. He kept looking out the window or towards the door, as if he could summon Sherlock with pure will.

 Every time he saw Molly she was frowning. She kept trying to pry more and more into what him and Sherlock did all weekend, but John just shrugged her off. He couldn't bring himself to care, nor find the energy to make a believable lie when all he was focused on was whether or not Sherlock was even alive.  
 God, he hadn't even told Sherlock about the dare. Was it a dare really? It wasn't like it was important anyway. It's not like John could fake the whole relationship.

 Was it even a relationship? Sherlock had taken him out to dinner, it had to be something. John just wished Sherlock was there. Not that he would have the guts to ask him about all this, but Sherlock would find a way to make him feel better about it without John mentioning it.

 

 John fell asleep soon after he got home. He slept all the way until hearing a shuffling by his window. He blinked at his clock that read 3:23am before rolling onto his back.

 The shuffling continued, but John couldn't find the energy to see what it was. He rationalized it being the wind.

 The sound stopped for a bit, then John felt someone shaking his shoulder. Neither Harry nor his dad had ever woken John up like that before. They usually resorted to shouting.

 John groaned and shook his head.

 "John." The voice was a whisper, but John recognized it instantly.

 "Sherlock?" He opened his eyes, and sure enough Sherlock was standing above the bed. His shirt untucked from his jeans, and his hair a mess from running his hands through it again and again, as he was doing now.

 He attempted a smile, "Hey, John."

 John sat up and pulled Sherlock next to him, "What the hell are you doing here?"

 Sherlock rubbed his hands on his thighs, "I don't wanna be home." He breathed in.

 "So you came here?"

 "We have a deal." Sherlock snapped at him, "Didn't want to be home so I came here."

 John knitted his eyebrows together, "Why's that?"

 He turned his head just slightly and John could see his lips twitch into a frown.

 "Just shit happening at my house. Rather be here."

 John pursed his lips, then sighed, "Fine."

 He tugged on Sherlock's arm again. John pulled him back onto the bed then laid his head on Sherlock's chest.

 "Is it that bad at home, or are you just looking for anyway to get out and I'm the best choice?" John whispered. It came out harsher than he wanted.

 He did like having Sherlock here, no doubt, and it had to be somewhat bad if Sherlock didn’t go to school. Or he could've just completely ditched (that's what everyone else thought anyway).

 Why did John even care? It's not like they had a promise to tell each other everything that happens in their life, especially when John couldn't even get the courage to tell Sherlock about the main reason he went out with him to begin with.

 "Both really. I wanted to get out because it's shit, and I wanted to come here anyway."

 "Are you gonna tell me what happened, or are you just gonna be irritatingly vague?"

 Sherlock shrugged, "I think I'd prefer to be vague."

 John huffed, "So you just get to know everything that's happening in my life, but I have to sit through you not trusting me?"

Maybe Sherlock shouldn't trust him.

 Sherlock glared at him, "it's not that I don't trust you John, it's that I don't trust anyone."

 John glared right back, "You're dramatic."

 "Why should I trust people, John? All they end up being are weaknesses or disappointments."

 John pulled away from Sherlock and sat up, "So what am I then? A weakness or a disappointment?"

 "That's not what I meant. You're not…People."

  John raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, what am I then?"

 "You're…" He sighed, "You're something else. You're separate. God, John, why do I have to spell it out for you?"

  _Because I want to hear you say it._

 John's voice came out small then, "What do you mean?"

 Sherlock sat up properly against the headboard and John could feel a lump in his throat, and he knew that right now Sherlock could crush him. He could demolish everything that  happened between them with the right word. John didn't know if he could survive that.

 Sherlock tugged on his arm, not to pull him closer, just to remind him how he was close.

 "I don't think of you as others, cause you're not like them, John. You never were. You're so different from everyone I've encountered that I can't believe that I have to explain this."

 John could've laughed at that point. It really was such a ridiculous statement. John wasn't special. He wasn't anything that couldn't be found in a thousand other people, yet, he still believed Sherlock.

 "So, you like me?"

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I've said that before."

 "Say it again."

 Sherlock sighed and ran his hand along John's thigh, "I _like_ you."

\--

 "Is it really that bad?"

 "Are you gonna keep asking that?"

 "You missed school."

 "I did."

 "Were you hurt?"

 Sherlock sighed, "You're very persistent."

 "You're very good at dodging."

 "In a way, yes.”

 "Dodging or hurt."

 Sherlock smiled, then whispered, "Both."


	10. Chapter Ten

John woke up to the front door slamming shut. The moment he opened his eyes to see Sherlock he felt his stomach drop.

 "Damn." He muttered, shaking Sherlock's shoulder.

 Sherlock's eyes blinked open just as another crash echoed through the house.

 "You have to leave, or hide." John whispered harshly.

 "Well, I'm not gonna leave."

 John could feel the footsteps rumble across the hallway. Sherlock kissed his forehead before climbing under the sheets and behind John. Before John could decide whether or not he wanted to pretend to be asleep, his dad walked in.

 "Hey, Kiddo." His dad slurred, "Wonder if you had any cash?" He stumbled into John's room and leaned against the wall.

 John shook his head, "I never have money, dad. I don't got a job, remember?"

His dad nodded slowly before stepping closer to the bed and getting down on his knees, so he was looking up at John. John knew what was coming. His dad felt that to make up for years of neglect and drunken rages all you had to do was occasionally ask how your kids were doing.

 John just wished Sherlock wasn't here.

 "You know, when I was your age I was dealing with some rough things. A girl had just broken up with me, my pa had just gone into the hospital, and I wasn't feeling all that great. So, I just wanna ask, how're you, John?"

 John stared back at this man he was forced to call his father and for a brief second wondered if he actually cared. John knew he hadn't had the best life, but neither had John, and only one of them was at a bar all day.

 "I'm fine, Dad." He said simply, because for the most part, he was. He had accepted his situation a long time ago, and he could be doing a lot worse.

 His dad nodded and stood, but decided to say one more thing right before he got to the door.

 "Hey, you heard about the Taff's boy?"

 John shook his head and he could feel Sherlock's arm wrap around his stomach. He had half a mind to slap it away.

  John's dad clicked his tongue and shook his head, "He ran away with some boy. Turns out he might be a fag." He  gave John a glance from over his shoulder, "Family's torn apart. It's real selfish what he did, don't you think?"

 John opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He ran away. With a boy. Sure, he was a scandal, but he probably didn’t care the moment he realized he didn't have to.

 "John?"

 John jumped out of his thoughts, "Yeah. Selfish."

 His dad turned his head slightly, before nodding and leaving. John spun around the moment the front door shut and pulled the covers off Sherlock.

 "We could do that." John's eye were wide, and he felt like smiling.

 Sherlock pulled himself higher on the bed, "Leave the house?"

 "Exactly. We could run away."

 "John-"

 "We could. We could leave."

 "For the slim chance of not having to hide? For the slim chance of being just another couple, overlooking the fact that we could break up at any point? Overlooking the fact that we won't be normal no matter where we go, John."

 John frowned, "So we should just put up with this instead?"

 "No, we should leave our middle-class life where we have somewhat of an education in favor of being homeless and humoring that fantasy of being together forever."

 "You don't think we're gonna last, then?"

 "I think we _might not_ last."

 "Well, if we might not last, why not break up now?"

 "Because we _might_ last."

 "Do you want to last?"

 "I think last doesn't even sound like a word anymore."

 "Sherlock." John snapped.

 He sighed, "Of course I do, John. Otherwise I wouldn't be here." He grabbed John's hand.

 "One more thing."

 "Shoot." Sherlock said, reaching over John for his pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, then sitting up and lighting one.

 "About last night-"

 "Don't." He cut in, "Don't try and be sympathetic. Hell, don't even try to pretend like you know what's going on. I don't need pity, I don't need help, and I most certainly don’t need to talk about it." 

 "Bu-"

 "No." He glared down at John, "I'm not gonna do it. I was tired and I wasn't even sure why I said anything."

 "Sherlock."

 "Saying my name is definitely gonna change my mind, John."

 John frowned, "So I'm just supposed to ignore it then?"

 Sherlock shrugged, "Do whatever you want, just don't expect me to talk about it."

 "Why not?"

 "John, I'm not constantly asking about your home life-"

  "And yet you still know almost everything."

 "It's not my fault there's not much to begin with."

 "Now you're just insulting me."

 Sherlock sighed, "Why can't you accept that I don't want to talk about it?"

 "Because you're worrying me!" John shouted, springing into a sitting position, "Because I happen to care about you, and that means I worry about you!"

 "I never asked you to worry about me."

 John huffed, "I never asked you to come into my life at all, but here you are."

 John wished he didn't say that. He _hadn't_ asked for Sherlock, but right now he wanted him. Right now he couldn't see himself with anyone _but_ Sherlock.

 Sherlock sat up, his eyebrows dipped together, "Fine then."

 "Sherlock."

 "No, you're right." He stood, "You never asked me to be here, not once."

 "You're being dramatic."

 "So what?" He shouted, throwing his hands in the air, "So what if I'm being dramatic, John? Not everyone wants to be as boring as you."

 John opened his mouth, but he couldn't get anything out. So Sherlock really did think he was boring. Of course he did, he had since the start. John could feel a lump in his throat.

 "Then why are you here, Sherlock? Why did you even want to talk to me?"

 Sherlock shrugged, "Nice way to keep occupied."

 John's heart stopped. He knew it. He knew it from the start. John was nothing to Sherlock, while Sherlock ended up being everything to him.

 He felt the door slam, but honestly he couldn't remember Sherlock walking out. The lump in his throat got bigger when he realized he was all alone again.


	11. Chapter Eleven

How did all of this fall apart? How could John let himself hurt Sherlock? It felt like a black hole was in place of his heart, and John didn't know if he was breathing or if the world was forcing air down his throat. He felt numb without Sherlock, lost without Sherlock.

 He got dressed in the morning, got to school on time, did all his school work, and smiled at all of his teachers, but when he came home there was no one. There was no smoke in the air, or ashes on his floor. There weren't quick smiles from beside, or above him. There was no flame anymore.

 John didn't know what to do. One second he thought of confronting Sherlock, and the next he reasoned he should leave him alone. Sherlock didn't want him after all.

 John wondered how he let himself think that this would last. They were teenagers, and they were _boys_. John really was an idiot.

 He went a day without Sherlock, then two, then three, then a whole week had passed and John's chest ached every time he got home. Everything melted together without Sherlock to make the days notable. Everything was bland and boring. Just like John himself.

 Molly stopped asking him questions since every time she did John shut down. No matter how much time passed, or how much John built his routine around not having Sherlock there, the wound was still fresh in his mind and the words kept replaying in his head.

 The quick shrug from Sherlock, and the confirmation that John was just a plaything in Sherlock's massive play. John thought about the time they first met a lot , and the way he couldn't believe Sherlock approached him first. The way Sherlock took over John's vision, and how John thought he was a wildfire.

 Really, it was all John's fault. He was the one constantly picking fights, he was the one pushing Sherlock, he was the one who made Sherlock chase after him. He always made it hard on Sherlock. He shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock left.

 "John?" Molly tilted her head, her eyebrows furrowed in concern, "Are you listening to me at all?"

 No. He wasn't. He was busy focusing on the people who had just walked in: a tall, blonde paper shaker with long legs and a short skirt, dangling on the arm of an even taller Sherlock Holmes.

 Molly looked over her shoulder, "Hear they're going steady. Is that why you two had a falling out?"

 John felt something larger than anger build up under his ribcage. Sherlock shouldn't be looking at anyone like that, but him. That girl didn't know anything about Sherlock. She didn't know what it was like to be destroyed by him from the inside out. She didn't know what it was like to look over and see a rare, wide, grin coming from Sherlock.

 "We didn't have a falling out. We just…" John shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. 

 Molly huffed, "You're starting to worry me. You two only knew each other for what? A couple weeks? And it's not like he was your best friend."

 John nodded absentmindedly, though she did have a point. He didn't even know Sherlock for that long. Everything he said could've been a lie, but John couldn't get Sherlock's face out of his head. He kept thinking about when he woke up with Sherlock and he was just sleepy enough to kiss him on the forehead, or when he would say something that shouldn't have been romantic or sweet, but still made John smile.

 " _And_ we had a deal. You were gonna tell me about him." She crossed her legs and her red poodle skirt fell over them. In a different light, she would be just another girl John was scared to talk to.

 John sighed "Fine. What do you want to know?"

 "Well…" She cocked her head, "What was he like?"

 John bit his lip, "He's…"

  _A massive nerd. A magic trick. Strange._

"Not how you would expect him to be." John landed on.

 "Did he…hit on you?"

 John wanted to laugh. He did a lot more than hit on John.

 He shook his head instead. He could've said yes, he could've outed Sherlock right then, but Sherlock had just as much evidence against John as John did him.

 "Huh." She took a sip of her drink and looked off into space. John tried not to scream.

\--

 John could not stop thinking about Sherlock. How could someone so far away still have such an impact? It got to the point that he had gotten ahold of Sherlock's number from some cheerleader long forgotten by all that was Sherlock Holmes.

 He sat by his phone (Pale blue, rotary, stuck there since it first landed on his bedside table.) thinking of everything he wanted to say and how hard it would be to actually say it.

He picked up the receiver, and got all the way to putting it to his ear before setting it back down again. He sighed and tapped his fingers on his thigh.

 He lifted the receiver and held it tightly in the air letting the first few numbers spin around. He shook his head and slammed it back down.

He sighed again and scratched his forehead.

_To be or not to be?_

 He let out a huff and sank back into his bed.

_To call or not to call?_

 He tore a hand through his hair and sprang back up. Sherlock probably wouldn't even answer, and it's not like he would know it's John.

 He dialed Sherlock's number and didn't allow himself to think about anything but the numbers. Not what they meant, not who they were calling, not anything. He held the receiver to his cheek and swallowed his fear and doubt.

 It took forever for someone to answer, a voice John hadn't heard in far too long.

 "Hello?"

 John felt how he did when Sherlock left. His fingers were shaking and he felt slightly dizzy.

 "Uh h-hi. Hey, Sherlock." He forced out, expecting Sherlock to hang up. Instead there was a long silence full of static and the worst scenarios John could come up with.

 "John." It came out breathy, like Sherlock had waited his entire life to say it and it took everything in him. John was close to crying.

 "I…Um, I got your number. Obviously." He sighed and looked down, "I don't know what to say…"

 "You…God, John."

 A chuckle ran up John's throat, "Yeah."

 "I thought you would…" He let out a breath, "I thought you stopped wanting to talk to me." He whispered.

 John's heart shattered, and he wished he had done this in person just so he could hug Sherlock.

 "You should come over." John said, just as quiet.

 "Actually…You should come over here. I could pick you up."

 John stayed quiet for a moment. Sherlock sounded the same, except for a slight twinge of…desperation? Fear? It sounded like he didn't want to lose John, but he also didn't want John to know that.

 "…Okay. We're gonna talk about this, right?"

 "Right. Not over the phone."

 "Not over the phone." John agreed.

 "Good. See you soon?"

 "Okay." He said softly and hung up the phone, before rushing to his closet.


	12. Chapter Twelve

John ended up wearing what he wore to school that day, really what he wore to school everyday. He wanted to dress up or look different in any possible way, but his current wardrobe didn't allow it.

 He didn't know what he would say to Sherlock. Would he start off with telling him about the dare? Maybe Sherlock wouldn't care either way. Maybe that was the reason John should tell him, no consequences.

 Maybe he should just be polite and let Sherlock lead the conversation. That might make John look reluctant to talk.

 He was putting on his shoes when he heard a honk from his driveway. He looked out his window, and didn't have to see anything more than headlights before dashing downstairs, finding his sister quite dressed up and by the door.

 "Leaving." She stated before slipping out the door and shutting it behind her. John frowned and looked out the peep hole, seeing an equally dressed up brunette meet Harry at the door, beaming brighter than the sun.

 John wondered who she was, and what she meant to Harry, and where they were going. He sighed and sat on the couch, tugging his pants down over his ankles.

 He held his head in his hands and breathed slowly, as if that would calm his nerves. Every second that went by was agonizing, and John swore God was just playing a cruel joke on him. He couldn't help but think that it might not be the best thing to go with Sherlock. He had hurt him once, he could do it again.

 John instantly felt selfish for thinking that. He had hurt Sherlock too. John sighed and stood, deciding it was better wait outside, the movement allowing him to think about something other than waiting.

 The moment he closed the door behind him he felt the air press in around him. Everything felt thick and seemed to crawl down his throat with every breath. John, in a way, enjoyed this weather. He enjoyed feeling the air instead of ignoring it. It was almost symbolic of how John wanted to be, and how Sherlock acted. However, he didn't enjoy the pure heat covering every inch of his body.

 He almost laughed at that. He hated the sticky heat, but enjoyed the attached humidity, just like hating everything that came with being Sherlock, except Sherlock himself.

  Everything in his life just had to be a metaphor, didn't it?

 He could've gone back inside, but by the time he considered it a cherry red car was in his driveway. John didn't know if he should wait for Sherlock to come to the door or meet him at the car, so he stood awkwardly between them, pulling at the fabric of his pants.

 Sherlock rose out of the drivers seat with ease and strolled over to John in a black shirt and black washed jeans.

 John looked up, "Hi."

 "I don't expect everything to instantly go back to the way it was just because we want it to, and you should do the same." Sherlock said, his hand in his pocket and his face blank and solid.

 John nodded, "But that doesn't mean it'll stay like this, will it?"

 Sherlock shrugged, "We'll see."

 John swallowed and nodded again, then followed Sherlock back to the car. Sherlock's guard was up completely. The more John looked at him, the worse he felt. Gone was the desperate Sherlock over the phone, in person he seemed like he didn't care either way.

 John didn't know if he should feel hurt or responsible.

 "Sherlock?"

 "Hm?"

 "Sorry."

 Sherlock's eyes flicked to John for a quick second.

 "Why?"

 "For being a jerk." John replied, staring out the window.

 "When?"

 "Stop acting like an idiot, Sherlock. You know what I'm talking about."

 "You were just responding to what I said in the first place."

 "I still acted like a jerk."

 "That doesn't make it your fault."

 "But it makes it yours?" John turned to look at him.

 "I was the one who started it."

 "Christ, Sherlock. It's both of our faults, okay? All I was saying was that I was a jerk, and I was."

 Sherlock gripped the steering wheel tighter, "You said you worried about me."

 "And you said you didn't ask me to be."

 "Yeah well…Thank you for doing it anyway."

 John nodded, "I kinda can’t control it."

 Sherlock bit his lip, "You're not boring." His knuckles were white by this point, "And you're not just a way to keep occupied. I don't know why I said that. Okay, I do know why, I was stressed and worried." He sighed heavily, "I didn't mean to do that."

 John didn't know to respond, but before he could think of anything Sherlock was talking again.

 "If you're a jerk, then I'm a complete ass.."

 "Sherlock."

 "Really. I don't want you to stop talking to me."

 "Sherl-"

 "I'm sorry." He was turned towards the road like there was nothing else but the road. His face was still void of expression, but his hands showed it all.

 "It's okay." John said softly, turning away from Sherlock.

 They pulled into a long driveway that led to a house, a story higher than John's and a muted blue color. They both sat silent for a few moments before John got the courage to speak up.

 "Sherlock? Who was that girl you were with?"

 "When?" He faced John.

 John frowned, "The diner. Yesterday."

 "Oh." Sherlock looked up in thought, "If I'm honest, I couldn't tell you her name."

 "So, she wasn't anyone important was she?"

 Sherlock shook his head.

 "Good, because…well, I was thinking-"

 "You shouldn't do that."

 John rolled his eyes, "Do you have to interrupt me all the time?"

 "Not all the time, no. Just when I find it amusing." He cracked a grin, and John couldn't help but return it.

 He looked down and chewed on his lip, "You didn't do anything with her did you?" He asked his shoes.

 Silence buzzed around both of them, and when John looked up Sherlock's eyebrows were knitted together slightly, just enough to make a small wrinkle. John looked back down.

 "Right. Okay."

 "You're mad."

 "No, I'm not. I'm not anything, Sherlock." He opened the car door, but couldn't find the will to get out. All that was running through his head was that damn cheerleader and everything Sherlock probably did with her.

 "I just want to be it for you." John said so softly he wasn't even sure if he had at all.

 "Then don't leave."

 "You're the one who left, Sherlock!" John snapped, "You're the one who shut the door, you're the one who didn't come back. Yes, I was a jerk, but I didn't want you to leave."

 The lump in John's throat was fully formed again and John could barely speak around it. Everything hurt again. How could Sherlock make him feel like this over and over again?

 "I…I wish I hadn't, John. I don't know what else I can say."

 John swallowed, "Why did you go with her?”

 "You know the answer to that."

 "Tell me anyway."

 Sherlock huffed, "Because I wanted to forget, John. I wanted to pretend like everything hadn't just gone wrong."

 "So, she was a distraction?"

 "Yes, John." Sherlock said forcefully.

 John looked him in the eye, "And, how do I know that I'm not just the same?"

 Sherlock stared back at him, just as fiercely, then reached over him and slammed the car door shut.

 His words were quiet, but they ran through John the way only Sherlock's could.

 "Why don't I show you?"


	13. Chapter Thirteen

"Sherlock. We shouldn't be doing this."

 "Why not?"

 "What if someone sees us?"

 "You're the one who wanted me to prove this to you."

 "Not in your _car_." John hissed.

 "My brother's car actually."

 "That makes it worse."

 Sherlock sighed and sat up. His legs were on either side of John's hips and his hair was a complete mess. His eyes were a crystal blue now, and they scanned over John in a familiar way. Simply a week without Sherlock had been too much. John felt like he needed to absorb every inch of him.

 He didn't know what about this moment made him remember, but he thought about the dare. Surely, it wasn't important now, but John still wanted to tell him.

 "Do you know why I said yes to you when you asked me to go on a ride?"

 Sherlock cocked his head, "I would actually try and answer that, except it's probably for a reason I don't expect."

 John's smile lasted a fraction of a second, "I don't think it's even important to bring this up after this long, but, a couple of days before you asked me, Molly wanted me to get to know you."

 "She seems like the prying type."

 John glared at him, "She isn't the only one, you know. The entire school wants to know what's behind Sherlock Holmes."

 "Except you?"

 "Especially me. Of course I want to know."

 "So, she knows about this?"

 "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

 "You could be."

 "Christ. I'm not trying to fight with you. I don't tell her anything. I don't _want_ to tell her anything, even though she's always saying how she's worried about me since I'm with you."

 "Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"

 "No, Sherlock."

 John tugged his arm until he laid back down, pushing his face into John's neck. John didn't like that Sherlock put up his guard so easily. He wished they would get past…whatever this was.

 "Hey, Sherlock?"

 "Hey, what?"

 "I want to be with you because I like you, not because of some stupid dare."

 Sherlock sighed, "Why do you like me?"

 "Have I never said?"

 Sherlock shrugged.

 John thought about it for a moment, "I like you because…God, you're brilliant. You're interesting, and I feel this need to spend more time with you. I like you because there's always more that I don't know, and a day with you feels like an eternity, and a day without you feels like too much. You…I don't know how to even put you into words, Sherlock. I love you."

 John's eyes went wide. He didn't mean to say that, but now it was hanging in the air.

 Sherlock looked up at him, "You…"

 "I…I was just rambling- I don't- I mean-"

 Sherlock launched towards him and crashed into his lips. John's head hit the door, but his whole existence was singled down to Sherlock.

 "Do you want to come inside?" Sherlock asked, out of breath and clinging onto John's shirt.

 John nodded, not too sure if he even knew how to speak anymore.

 Sherlock sat up and opened the door, getting out and looking back at John expectantly.

 "You coming?"

 John nodded again and shuffled out of the car.

\--

Sherlock's house was straight out of a magazine. Orange couch with small throw pillows, end table, coffee table, two chairs, and wide windows on two sides of the varnished wall. Everything looked untouched, unapproachable, and too clean.

 Sherlock kicked his shoes off in the middle of the room, ruining the plastic aesthetic and making John smile just a bit.

"Mycroft likes appearances, and I like proving points." Sherlock said, "Hell, I'd take you on this couch if the risk was worth the reward."

 John snorted, "I wouldn't agree with that."

 Sherlock shrugged.

 "Anyone home?" John asked, trying to sound casual.

 "Mycroft, probably, so we'll have to be quiet." He reached for John's hand, and pulled him upstairs as soon as he had it. John was then dragged down a hallway and into a room. It looked like a normal teenager room that someone then smashed with a bat.

 Clothes and paper and books were strewn across the floor, bed was unmade, and John hoped those holes in the wall weren't from bullets. Sherlock's hands went on John's hips, pulling him closer than necessary.

"Alright?"

"Hmm?" John asked, not able to keep his eyes from wandering the room. It was the exact opposite from the living room just a few feet away, and had Sherlock written all over it.

"The room, alright?"

John grinned, just fast enough to be noticed, "It fits."

That seemed to satisfy Sherlock, as his mouth was back on John's.

Mostly silence and small gasps were all that filled the room. John felt blurred around the edges again, like the rest of the world was on fire and he had immunity, like everything finally fit together again.

\--

John couldn't get close enough. He couldn't get _enough._ Enough air, enough of Sherlock, enough of this.

"Sherlock?" He got out between stalled breaths.

"Yes, babe?" Sherlock stopped, but didn't go anywhere, keeping his head at John's stomach.

  
"I..." He breathed in, "I like this."

 John could've kicked himself for how stupid that sounded.

Sherlock grinned and continued his warpath across John's skin.

"That's good." He whispered after a moment, before pulling himself up. John could see the entirety of his bare chest when he was sitting up like this, and even a few fading bruises. John sucked in a breath through his teeth.

 Sherlock stayed there. Didn't move for a good 30 seconds in complete silence. John looked around, then back to Sherlock.

"What're you doing?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Are you wanting me to do something?"

He shrugged again.

"You shrug a lot."

He shrugged once again.

"Well, this was a nice talk we had, can you come back down here, then?"

Sherlock stayed still.

"Something wrong?"

Sherlock friggn' shrugged again.

John huffed, and crossed his arms. Fine. If he was gonna be like that.

John stared at the ceiling, but could still see Sherlock smiling out of the corner of his eye.

 "I don't know what you want me to do."

 "Figure it out."

 "I don't like you."

 "Just a second ago you were gushing about me."

 "I'm gonna slug you."

 "Go ahead."

 John was going to set this house on fire. He knew Sherlock was trying to prove a point of some kind by getting John to do something, but how in the world was he supposed to know what it was?

 Sherlock pressed his hands flat on John's chest. John felt like screaming. Ten more seconds passed and he couldn't take it. He sat up, and pulled Sherlock in again. Sherlock tasted like burnt rubber and cigarettes, which sounded terrible in John's mind, but he didn't actually mind it.

 Sherlock smiled wider than the grand canyon.

 "So, you just wanted me to kiss you?"

 "That was part of it."

 "You're a dick."

 Sherlock smirked.

 John rolled his eyes before kissing Sherlock again, his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and Sherlock's chest pressed against his.

 He never would understand this person.

\--

 "You're s-such a- _god…_ "

"Why, thank you."

 "Dick. You're such a dick, Sherlock. Don't flatter yourself."

 "You like it."

 "Do I have to clarify that again?"

Sherlock smirked "I wouldn't mind."

"I would."

"That's 'cause you're a party pooper."

Sherlock kissed John softer than he thought was possible. It made John's stomach flip. Sherlock settled next tohim on the rather large bed.

"Do you mind if I get a shirt or something?"

"And take away the privilege of getting to see you like this?"

John rolled his eyes, "Please?"

 He dug around the sheets for his boxers, before taking the shirt Sherlock has most certainly gotten from the ground. John rolled his eyes again, but took it, just a bit glad that it smelled like smoke like the rest of Sherlock.

He pulled John in close with an arm around his waist, "I think you just enjoy seeing me suffer."

John shook his head, then hid it in Sherlock's chest. There was a small, enjoyed silence that passed between them, in which Sherlock wouldn't stop kissing John's shoulders, making John shudder over and over again, which just made Sherlock do it more.

 "I have a question." John whispered.

 "Man, do you love those."

 "I don't think you're gonna like it."

 "But you're gonna ask anyway." Sherlock said. John could tell he had lit a cigarette from the smell in the air. The first drag always smelled the sweetest.

 "Where are those bruises from?"

 "That's a stupid question, what do you really want to ask?"

 John sighed, "…Who are those bruises from?"

 Sherlock bit his lip, and John wondered if he would actually answer him.

 "What would you even do if you knew who it was?"

 "I…" John shook his head, "I don't know."

 Sherlock sighed, "My dad gets visits. Usually they're supervised, but…they thought it was going so well, and my dad cleans up real nice." He tore a hand through his hair, "I didn't even say anything. I make sure to be quiet and not reactive."

 "I didn't know…I didn't know you still saw your dad."

 Sherlock shrugged.

 John kissed his shoulder, "Did you tell anyone?"

 "You."

 "I don't count."

 "I thought I addressed this, you do count." Sherlock gave a small smile.

 "You know what I mean."

 Sherlock shrugged again.

 "So, no." John looked up at him, and sighed.

 "There's nothing you can do about it anyway, John."

 John chewed on his lip. He couldn't really. He couldn't stop Sherlock's dad, he couldn't talk to whoever decided to give him unsupervised visits. He was helpless, unless he found a way to cut Sherlock off completely from his dad.

 He almost gasped when he realized it.

 "Sherlock." John said quietly, like the name itself was dangerous.

 "Hm?" Sherlock took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke over John's shoulder.

 "Let's…" He swallowed, "Let's run away."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last one :,)

"You're insane."

"I think that's your fault."

"John. I'm…"

"Why not, Sherlock? Remember when you were first in my room and you said I felt suffocated? I didn't believe you, but you're right. You're so right." John gripped the sheets around him,

 Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, then flicked his eyes to John.

  John reached for Sherlock's hand and gripped it tight. He meant what he said. He constantly felt like he was walking on eggshells around here, like he could never be himself, like he would never find himself. He felt like he was always hiding something, but with Sherlock…Christ, with Sherlock he felt…

 "You make me feel free." John said softly, "And I would hate to lose that."

 Sherlock's eyes ran down John's torso. He inhaled and then tugged John until he was snuggled up warm against him.

 "So, you just want to leave?"

 "Don’t you?"

 "I'm not disagreeing, I just find it funny that _John Watson_ is telling me about his dreams to run away."

 "Why's that?"

 "Because you're boring." Sherlock said towards the ceiling.

 John frowned.

 "You know what I mean."

 "No, actually I don't."

 Sherlock sucked in a breath thought his teeth, "Everyone thinks you're predictable, boring, mainstream. You're plain and not at all extraordinary. If it wasn't for me you'd end up dating a just-as-boring soc with long blonde hair and dreams of ankle biters."

 "But…?"

 "You just want people to think that." Sherlock smirked at John, "You just want the path with the least explanation. You hate questions, but you like asking them."

 "Why do I even have to talk to you? You can just read it all."

 Sherlock smirked wider.

 "So, you saved me, then?"

 "I would say so."

 "You're rather full of yourself."

 "Original thought you have there."

 John kissed Sherlock's chest, "So, are we?"

 Sherlock had already closed his eyes, "Are we what?"

 " _Leave,_ Sherlock.

 "You want me to go?"

 John rolled his eyes, "Is that a yes?"

 “It’s a…we should talk realistically about this.”

 “I am talking realistically about this.”

 “I can’t just run away from my problems. _We_ can't just run away from our problems.”

 “Sherlock, how’re you gonna fix this? Any of this?”

 “I…I could tell Mycroft.”

 “But are you going to?”

 “I- I don’t know, John.”

 “Why does he let you see your dad in the first place?”

 “Because he has to. My dad won in court, so he has to.” Sherlock swallowed and stared at the ceiling.

 John sighed, "Sherlock. What are you thinking?”

  “I think…I think you’re insane, but…” The corner of his mouth lifted, “I don’t want anything else.”

\--

They didn’t waste time before packing. Sherlock stuffed a duffle bag full of plain shirts and cigarettes. He packed up records that John didn’t even know he had.

 “I hid them behind my bookshelf. I would…” He shook his head lightly, “I would save up money I found around the house until I had enough to buy a record.”

 “That’s…” John smiled, “That’s really cute.”

 “I’m not cute, shut up.”

 “You are. You’re probably the cutest person I’ve ever met.”

 “Now you’re just messing with me.”

 John laughed and kissed his cheek, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

 “No, we’re just pretending to do it, John.”

 John rolled his eyes, “Tell me more about the records.”

\--

Sherlock told John about the records all the way to John’s house. He had four of them exactly, and honestly, John didn’t even know what they were, he just knew that Sherlock liked talking about them, and he liked listening.

 When they got to John’s house it hit him so hard that this was real. They were leaving. Finally.

 “Your clothes are all the same.” Sherlock muttered from John’s closet.

 “I don’t think you should be talking. All you have are t-shirts and jeans.” John rolled his eyes.

 “That’s because they’re cool. Your clothes are not cool.”

 John walked up behind him and stood on his tiptoes to look over Sherlock’s shoulder.

 “My clothes are fine.”

 “Your clothes are normal.”

 “Exactly,” John rolled his eyes again, “If you’re just gonna insult me on my clothes, let me pack instead.”

\--

They were on the road with as much food as John would let them take and two bags, a suitcase, and a box of books in the backseat. John couldn’t stop smiling.

 “Mycroft will go ape when he sees his car gone.” Sherlock said.

 “Probably.”

 “Where do you think we’ll be by then?”

 “Halfway across the world.”

 Sherlock laughed, turning the key, and John could feel the rumble through his entire being.

 He leaned in close, clinging to Sherlock’s arm, “Hey, Sherlock?”

 “Yeah?”

He smiled wide, "Wanna go on a ride?"


End file.
